A Generic Logan Romantic Adventure
by Silly Mamma
Summary: I attempt to create the most generic Logan fanfic possible.


**Characters not mine. Please don't sue.**

Have you ever noticed that Logan keeps getting drawn into fanfics full of tough broads with adamantium blades? Those folks up at Department H must have been very busy arming poor Logan and several hundred Weapon-X chicks. What follows is my attempt to create a completely generic Logan romantic fan fiction. Even my heroine, Generica, must follow the rules that countless fanficcers before me have set into stone.

I've only written the first act here--the meeting at the bar. (It's always a bar. I don't know why). You all probably know the rest. Joining up with the X-Men. The shock and surprise as the team realizes that she is more than she seems. The growing danger. The big battle where the heroine must sacrifice her life. Logan's despair, his pain, grieving as yet another leading lady joins the hugh pile of female corpses--not to be confused with the even larger pile of nameless Hand samurai corpses--that litter his psyche and cause him to experience that delicious meloncholy that so defines his character. I'm not sure if I'll address those acts or if I do, if I'll write them in chronological order.

Nor does this fic attempt to address those other Logan chestnuts: the romance with Jean after she breaks up with Scott, the Jubilee "all grown up" Electra experience or even the movieverse "Return to Rogue" scenario. Those will all have to wait. Instead, we'll concentrate on the more essential romance with the mysterious stranger. 

Enjoy and please don't take it too seriously.

* * *

It is a bar like any other bar. In fact, it is a bar exactly like every other bar--and that's the point that matters. The lights are low, the counters worn wood. Country music lingers in the corners, creeping in and out of nooks and into the subconcious. The stench of stale beer hangs in the air and the reek of smoke attaches itself to coats and hair. In just a few minutes a woman will walk in, swirling the wisps of smoke to join in the legend. It doesn't matter who she is, where she came from or where she thinks she's going. The legend is all. It takes control and sets the structure. It defines the action and the rules. And our reluctant hero and our newly arrived damsel will join the dance already taking place. They have no more control than leaves caught in an autumn afternoon breeze.

You would think that the door should slam open, catching the attention of everyone in the bar, but it does not. It opens smoothly, letting in the smallest gust of cold air as she enters. Her entrance is small. But this helps build up the story. No point in forcing things too quickly. She enters and smiles. She has friends here. She's been here before. One friend winks at another, before greeting her with two glasses of beer in hand. "Two?" asks our heroine. "Why two?"

"Because you can't help yourself," the friend replies. "You always pick out the biggest, hairiest guy around. You buy him a beer. You ask him to dance. We thought we'd save you the work." Her head tilts, pointing out a figure in the corner.

Our heroine can barely see him. The shadows cloak him in anonymity. Darkness lies across his face. She can make out the muscles ("Yes."), the long sideburns ("Yes.") and the scowl on his face ("Oh Yes."). A smile begins to creep across her face. She takes the beers in hand, delivering them to the table in the corner.

He looks up at her, tilting back the brim of the cowboy hat. "Already have a beer," he says.

She shrugs. "Thought you'd might like another. And maybe some company."

His foot pushes out a chair. "All right," he says. He sniffs a few times. "Have a seat," he adds.

"I'm Generica," our heroine replies, sitting down. "Generica Foxsilver."

He grunts, "Logan." A pause. An awkward pause. "Thanks for the beer."

"I don't suppose," Generica begins. "that you'd care to..." She trails off as the glowering eyes meet hers.

"Care to what?"

"Dance?" It comes out more as a question than she normally cares for.

Another pause. "Sure." 

Logan stands and offers her a hand. Generica looks down at the top of his head. "Great," she adds. They move off to the dance floor and slow dance to Kenny Rogers.

A tap on the shoulders. "What?" Logan says, looking up past Generica's head, annoyed. A large figure, wearing unspoken menace stands at their side.

"It's my turn to dance with her." The voice is coated in beer and whiskey, with overtones of arkansas inbreeding.

"I'm already dancing with him, big guy," Generica interjects before Logan has a chance even to growl. "Back off."

Logan finds himself smiling. "What the lady says. Right, darlin'?" They turn their back on the Bubba and resume dancing. After a minute or so, the Bubba leaves. But not for long.

Soon he returns, with several friends in tow. "I said," says reinforced Bubba "that it is my turn to dance with the gal."

Now it's Logan's turn. "Don't think so, bub," he says turning towards the doomed man.

The Bubba is not very smart. He pushes Logan's shoulder. "Now, now," Logan continues. "I'm not looking for a fight here. I'm just having a nice dance with my gal, right?"

The gal nods. "Right."

The Bubba swings. Before he can connect, a fistful of blades blocks him, lingering almost tenderly before his face. Bubba begins to reassess the situation in less favorable terms.

His friends prove less enlightened. They grab Generica's shoulders, starting to drag her away from the manly brawl. Several more blades *snickt* out. Generica grins. These blades are on an entirely different set of hands. Now even Logan turns to look at her. It is swiss-army-hand heaven. "Thanks for the invite, boys," Generica says. "but the answer is no. Now scram."

Despite, or perhaps because of their natural tendency towards inbreeding, the Bubbas all scram. Four sets of blades, twelve in all, snickt back into forearms.

"Where were we, darlin?" Logan asks after a decent dramatic pause. Generica reaches back down to his arms as they return to the dance.

Tinny strains of country music flow out of the Bar's windows as the Bubbas pile into their pickup and head back out to the countryside. The Legend's first stanza has been written. It pipes the tune that the dancers step to both in the bar and along the dark rural road. The moon shines down with cold beams of light onto the truck that rides along the highway of legend. The dancers step to tunes they do not hear, twirling with destiny. The music comes from the harmony of the fates and the characters are captured in its waltz.


End file.
